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“It has been done.” Diavolo solemnly stated, letting the words hang in the air. Lucifer did not register the words that have been spoken. He was kneeling and staring at the place Lilith was just at a moment ago.
She was gone.
“She’s going to live a happy life in the human world. She won’t remember anything at all, not even the war.” Diavolo said, looking down at the broken angel—no, demon, in front of him.
“But she won’t remember me. Or her family.” Lucifer breathed out, still staring at the empty space.
“Precisely.” Diavolo bit his tongue, trying to offer words that would comfort him. But what does one even say in this? Sorry? For not healing her? That won’t do at all.
“Come on Lucifer,” Diavolo said as he offered a hand to help him up, “Let’s get you cleaned up at my house.” Lucifer looked at the hand in front of him and narrowed his eyes.
I don’t need your help, his eyes seemed to say as he wordlessly got up but stumbled when a flash of pain shot up from his back. Lucifer cutting his wings did a number on him, something he wouldn’t admit out loud.
“Come on, grab onto my arm, I’ll help you.” Pleaded Diavolo
“I don’t want your help. I’m fine on my own.” spat out Lucifer.
“You don’t even know where I live. Let me take you there.” Lucifer didn’t want to admit it but he was right. He barely knew his way around here from the handful of visits he took when he was an angel. Lucifer begrudgingly leaned on Diavolo’s arm and let him lead the way.
As they both walked to the Demon Lor—Diavolo’s Castle Lucifer’s adrenaline rush was waning out and began to feel every ache, bruise, cut he got from the brutal war. Time was going fast and slow for him each passing step in the cool night air and felt sleeping tugging on his eyes. He faltered every now and then but neither of them took notice of it. When they finally made it inside Diavolo heard speak to someone, probably his trusty butler Barbatos, but the pain was getting to him, thrumming in his ears, spreading all over his body in hot, fiery pulses.
“Get us some clean towels and prepare the guest bedroom. I’ll help him clean up.”
“Yes, Young Master,” Barbatos said before silently walking off to gather the supplies.
“I can clean myself up. Just show me where the baths are at.” Lucifer gritted out, his claws digging into Diavolo’s arm, barely flinched at the pain.
“You really shouldn’t—”
Lucifer snapped his ruby gaze toward him, filled with rage and a sense of authority that Diavolo hasn’t felt in decades. “Do not trifle me. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. I was the Morningstar of the Heaven’s, God’s right holy hand, and leader of the Seraphims, and led the rebellion against my Father. Now tell me where the Goddamned baths are at before I tear into your chest and rip out your heart like I did my siblings in the Celestial Realm.”
Diavolo, amused at his answer, wordlessly lead the way to the baths. He had to say that he was glad that he picked him as his right hand. Having Lucifer in Devildom should be interesting, to say the least.
Diavolo opened the door to the bathroom and Lucifer was presented with a huge, elegant bath that looked like a dark, marble, mini-pool with steps leading inside to the floor with candles, towels, oils, salts, and Devildoms plants on the edge. There was a glass shower in the corner of the room and a dark vanity with a huge mirror on the wall.
“Please, take all the time you need. I’ll be waiting for you outside if you need anything.” And with that Diavolo closed the door. For the first time since he fell Lucifer heard nothing but his thundering heartbeat and heavy breaths. He quietly began to strip, wincing when he moved his arms around when he took off the layers of clothes that he had on that were caked with soot, blood, and sweat. When he finished he noticed his reflection in the mirror and softly gasped.
Is that . . . really him?
He tentatively stepped forward and then another to take a closer look at himself. He found the culprit of the throbbing pain on his head: horns, black and twisted above him. He noticed the black diamond that was glistering on his forehead. As soon as he was about to touch it he noticed the sharpness of his claws, ready to hurt and kill. He quickly put his hand down, not wanting to examine how chipped his nails were and how much they were caked with dirt and blood. He noticed how bloodshot his eyes were, the bags underneath them, and the busted lip. He wanted to look away but he couldn’t. He saw the splotches of blood on his cheek, his pointy ears, and his sticky hair. He slid his tongue over his teeth and felt sharp fangs that didn’t exist before. He turned his back around and let out a sob: there, where his beautiful, pure white wings used to be were now six angry, ugly shallow cuts.
At that moment he felt so incredibly dirty and stumbled over to the glass shower. He turned on the faucet and let the hot water scathe his skin. Muddy trails of water started to run off him and circle the drain. Lucifer grabbed the clean washcloth and began to gently wash his cuts as best as he can without straining himself but it was no use, he screamed in pain when he barely brushed against them. He needed someone else to help him.
Lucifer cautiously went up to wash his hair, careful not to bump against his horns but flinched when he started to massage his scalp, the horns and skin moving against each other with white-hot pain spreading across his head. He cursed out loud to himself for not being careful enough and gave up on his hair and back, hoping the water will rinse it out for him.
He went down to his chest and arms where the pain wasn’t unbearable and began to scrub as best as he can. He noticed how dirty the rag had become and threw it down to the ground and grabbed another clean one. When he made it to his hands he noticed the weird feeling he felt wasn’t washing off and scrubbed harder. When it still hadn’t left Lucifer grabbed the soap and went deep into his claws and scraped every last crumb of dirt in there. His hands were becoming raw and he felt his skin cracking from the rough treatment but he still scrubbed, desperate to get the feeling off of him.
“Why won’t it come off?” Lucifer whispered to himself, “Why won’t it come off? It won’t come off. Please, get off, get off of me!” screeched out Lucifer. He screamed out in pain, at the world, at himself and his actions, at the death of his sister that he will never hold again, never hear her laughter, never see her beautiful, beautiful smile. There was fresh blood cracking open and running down his body, mixing in with the now cold water and his hot tears. Lucifer collapsed to his knees on the hard tiles, bringing his hands close to his chest and let sobs rack his body as he screamed his sorrows out.
Diavolo was standing outside the door, hearing every scream passing Lucifer’s lips. He knows he needs to let it all out on his own but at the same time, he’s itching to help and comfort him as best as he can. Barbatos sensed his need and shook his head at him. Diavolo sighed and slipped past the door to his bedroom.
When Lucifer walked into Diavolo’s room with his horns still out and in just a robe his demeanor has changed and is now calm and composed, saved for the puffy eyes and raw hands.
Diavolo waved at him over. “Please, let me heal you with a spell. It’s the least I could do.”
“No. I want to be reminded of the pain of my actions. Bring me a med-kit, I’ll let time heal me.” said Lucifer. Diavolo huffed at his stubbornness. His eyes flitted down to his hands and sighed.
“At least let me heal your hands.”
“No.”
“As the future prince of Devildom and you pledging your loyalty to me, I demand you to let me heal your hands.”
Lucifer huffed at the way he used his authority like that but reluctantly put out both of his hands in front of him.
“Do what you must.”
Diavolo smiled in what felt like ages. “May the vestiges of pain that linger in the demon before me be eliminated.” A bright golden glow emitted from his hands to Lucifer’s which healed immediately. Torn skin was stitched back together and its color returned to its normalcy. Lucifer returned his hand to his side and gripped the sheets, feeling as if something was still wrong. Diavolo thought that would be the case and dug inside his pockets.
“Here, I want you to have this. To get rid of the feeling of skin.” Lucifer widened his eyes in what Diavolo presented him: a pair of red, leather gloves.
Lucifer shocked his head at him. “I can’t accept them. I already told you I want to be reminded of this pain I caused myself.”
“Please,” Pleaded out Diavolo, “I don’t want to hear you suffer again. Yes, I heard you when you were in the bathroom, I saw how your hands were. I don’t want you to go through that again.” Diavolo dropped the gloves at his lap. “Consider it while I grab the med-kit. I’m sure we have one around here . . .” With that, Diavolo left the room in search of the med-kit, leaving Lucifer with his thoughts.
He looked down at his lap and noticed the scent of leather that was stronger than the scent of skin. He carefully puts them, sliding each finger in its appropriate place. As the gloves hugged his skin Lucifer sighed a breath of relief as he felt the feeling go away. He made his hands curl into fists and found the sound of leather relaxing to him.
And for the first time since the war, he felt a strange sort of peace.